Gripped
Copyright © 2016 Joanne Schwehm
All Rights Reserved
Edited by
Pam Berehulke, Bulletproof Editing
Cover Design by
Sommer Stein, Perfect Pear Creative Covers
Formatted by
Integrity Formatting
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, including photocopying, recording, or by information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The use of artist, song titles, famous people, locations, and products throughout this book are done so for storytelling purposes and should in no way been seen as an advertisement. Trademark names are used in an editorial fashion, with no intention of infringement of the respective owner’s trademark.
DEDICATION
This one goes out to my favorite golfer—my husband.
Golf is a lot like love. It takes a smooth stroke, a gentle grip, and a lot of practice to get it right.
—Dane Prescott
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Coming Soon
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Stay in Touch
Books by Joanne Schwehm
CHAPTER 1
May
~ Dane ~
Fuck. Whoever said the human head weighed about ten pounds was an idiot, because mine felt like it weighed at least ten times that. And the drum line marching between my ears? Brutal.
After I rubbed my temples with my fingertips for a few seconds, the mattress shifted beside me. What the hell? I glanced to my left to find blond hair splayed across the pillow next to mine. Who was she, and why was she in my bed?
Disorientation spun me as I took in my surroundings. I’d been moving around so much this year, staying in short-term rentals, that I briefly forgot where I was. I knew I was in New York, Long Island, specifically, but was this my place?
It wasn’t until I glanced at the nightstand and saw a picture of my family I kept with me when I traveled that I let out a breath. Next to the photo was an empty condom wrapper.
Well, at least my cock had a good time. I ran my hand through my hair, giving my scalp a light scrub, which wasn’t the best idea.
My head pounded as I recalled the flecks of gold in my shot glass last night. No wonder I felt as if I’d chewed on cinnamon candy, but that was the remnants of all the Goldschläger I’d drunk. When I tried to remember what else I’d done besides this chick lying next to me, I swore I could hear the sound of my eyelashes hitting my cheekbones with each blink. This was going to be a rough day.
I lifted the white bedsheet to find I was in my boxer shorts. Naturally, I couldn’t help but take a peek at the body next to me. I might have been hungover, but I wasn’t dead. My bedmate’s body was toned, tanned, and naked.
“Hey.” I tapped her on the shoulder and when she didn’t move, I nudged her again. “Sweetheart . . . wake up.”
A groan came from the woman as she rolled over, exposing her perky tits. Her eyelids fluttered before she smiled at me. “Hey there, lover.”
“Um, yeah. I need to get going. Can you show yourself out?”
I stood, giving myself a head rush. When my feet hit the carpeted floor, I did my best not to fall back on my ass. I pulled on a pair of sweatpants I found on the chair next to the bed before turning back to Blondie.
“Excuse me?” she said, her tone dripping with offense. “Don’t you know who I am? No one talks to me that way.”
I had no idea who she was at the moment, and after the snarkiness in her tone, I cared even less. At this point, even feigning interest wasn’t possible.
“I need to go to work, so again, can you show yourself out? I need to shower.”
She abruptly sat up, just the sight of which made me dizzy. “Do you know what you are?”
This should be good. “Do you want me to guess?”
“An asshole.”
I merely shrugged in response. Meh, I’ve been called worse.
“I’m Carina Davenport.” She reached up to smooth her long hair before she flipped the ends over her shoulder. “Remember, from the club? You gave me a lesson last week?”
When I didn’t respond immediately, she scowled at me before she threw the sheet back and hastily began pulling on her clothes. As soon as I saw the tiny red dress, the memory of her ass rubbing against my dick as we danced the night before broke through my haze, reminding me of how she’d done that when I taught her how to putt last week.
“I’m sorry, Carina. I do remember bits and pieces. I’m just not sure how we ended up back here.” Based on the pounding in my head, I could probably blame the confusion on the amount of liquor I’d put away.
Her perfectly pointed nose crinkled as she lifted her chin. “Well, you weren’t that memorable either.”
A hoity-toity huff escaped her, causing her lips to pucker. Suddenly an image of her on her knees sucking me off came back to me.
“Oh yeah, I remember your lips wrapped around my . . .” I glanced down at my crotch.
A gasp escaped her. “That’s all you remember? I’ll make sure to tell my father that you aren’t worth the clubs you play with.”
Do I know her father? I didn’t care at the moment. Not to mention, I was much more valuable than the clubs I played with, and I had a great set.
“Well, tell your dad his daughter did him proud last night.”
Carina glared at me. “Don’t push your luck.”
My tone turned sugary sweet. “Do you remember everything that happened?”
“I remember how much you loved it,” she said, lifting her chin again with a sniff. “Does that count?”
“So, you don’t remember much more than I do?” I took a step toward her, which made her take one back.
“I’m leaving.” She grabbed her purse and pivoted toward the door.
“Wait.”
I rushed after her through the living room. After I gently grabbed her elbow, I looked into her eyes. Then I remembered—we did have sex. More images appeared, but this time she was on all fours in my memory, her naked ass high in the air.
“Like I said, last night is a bit fuzzy for me, so excuse me if I seem a little lost this morning.”
Carina tilted her head, looking thoughtful, and then smiled. “I knew you’d want to do this again.”
I don’t.
She batted her eyes. “Do you have any openings this week? I
think I may need another lesson.” Reaching out, she ran a perfectly manicured nail between my pecs and down to the waistband of my sweats.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I lied.
She rolled onto the balls of her feet and kissed me. “I thought so.” Then she left.
I needed to get my shit together. Then make sure my teaching calendar was full and remember not to drink to excess again.
My cell phone rang, sounding like I was at a rock concert.
Damn, that’s loud. When I looked at the screen and saw it was my older brother Jack, I pressed the button to accept the call.
“Hey, bro,” I croaked.
Jack laughed. “You sound like crap. Long night?”
“Yeah, something like that. Could you please whisper? I think I had one too many, and you know I’m not a heavy drinker.” I headed to the kitchen to make myself a quick cup of coffee, cursing myself for going out and trashing my body like that. “I lost the tournament I was in yesterday. Looks like I drowned my sorrows in a bottle of booze. My head is going to explode.”
His laughter made me pull the phone away from my ear.
“Seriously, Jack. Can I call you back? I need to get in the shower to wash the perfume off my body.”
“So, it was that kind of night. Do you know her name?”
“Of course I do. It’s, um . . . wait . . . she told me.” I stared into the steaming coffee dripping into my mug as if it were a crystal ball and her name was going to appear.
It didn’t.
When I didn’t say anything more, Jack laughed. “Well, I’m glad it was meaningful. I thought you were over your one-night stands. Didn’t you tell me you needed to focus on golf?”
I didn’t bother to say not only didn’t I remember her name, but I also didn’t remember what happened. He wouldn’t understand. Jack was different from me; he’d been focused since he came out of the womb and now owned a thriving public relations firm that he’d built from the ground up.
“Yeah, yeah. I know,” I said. “This was a fluke. I am concentrating on golf; this was just a setback.” And definitely not a pattern I wanted to fall back into. “I’m gonna clean up and head to the club. Call you back later.”
“Great. Go take ibuprofen or something.”
“Will do. ’Bye.”
After a much-needed shower and a couple of ibuprofen chased with coffee, I headed to the Royale Country Club. I knew after spending time on the driving range and enjoying the late spring air, I’d feel better. At least, that was what I hoped for.
Stretching out, swinging my club, that was just what the doctor ordered. There was nothing better than the sound of the sweet spot of a club smacking a dimpled white ball. Although, I only made it about an hour before I needed to get to the pro shop to sign in for work.
Giving lessons wasn’t what I wanted to be doing, but the cash kept me afloat until I could start earning money playing the game I loved as a pro. Doing well in the upcoming qualifier tournament this summer was all I needed. Only the top ten finishers in the Tour Golf Professional qualifier would get their pro tour card, and I needed to be in that elite group. Being a TGP golfer had been my dream since I was a little boy, and I was so close to achieving it, I could taste it.
Thankfully, my headache had subsided and I was feeling more human again. Golfers were lined up in a row at the range, hitting practice ball after practice ball. Some I’d given lessons to, and I was happy to see their improvement.
One golfer, Kimberly, had played softball before she took up golf, and she had serious swing issues. But looking at her now, she wasn’t breaking her wrists as she had been, and she was keeping her feet planted. Her shots might not be long, but they were straight.
“Looking good, Kimberly,” I called out in my most encouraging voice. “Glad to see you’re sweeping the club back.”
She stepped off the mat and when she turned around, her face lit up. “Hi. I’ve been practicing what you taught me. My family is having a reunion this weekend and I want to play with them, but I don’t want to play poorly.” She shrugged. “Hopefully, I won’t embarrass myself.”
I looked at my watch and realized I had a few minutes. “Show me your swing again. Grab your 6-iron this time.”
Kimberly bit her lower lip and let out a breath, but she did as I asked. She reminded me a lot of my sister, Gretchen. They were probably about the same age and had the same competitive nature.
Her light brown ponytail swung from over her shoulder as she leaned over to place the ball directly on the turf mat. After she let out a deep breath, she swept the club back and then swung through, making perfect contact with the ball. The distinctive plink sound it made was a good sign.
With her club still held behind her back in the perfect follow-through pose, she looked at me. “Did you see that?” Her cute face lit up like the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center.
“That was great. I don’t think you have anything to worry about when you play with your family. If you find yourself struggling, try not to get frustrated, even though I know that’s hard to do. Just remember—you’re a beginner, and even people who’ve been playing for decades still get annoyed. Keep practicing, and if you have any concerns or need anything else, come and see me.”
“You’re the best, Dane.” She came up and hugged me.
After I gave Kimberly a quick brotherly squeeze, I released her. “My pleasure. Let me know how you do this weekend. You have my card.”
She beamed as she set another ball on the mat. “You got it.”
My parents had always told me I’d be an excellent instructor, but I’d wanted—no, I’d needed—to play. It was all I’d ever wanted. When I was named the captain of the golf team my sophomore year in high school, I’d been determined to be the best. It wasn’t until Stanford had come knocking on my door to offer a full ride to play on their team that I realized how good I actually was. But in the end, I’d opted to stay closer to home, and attended the University of Virginia instead.
Now, all I needed was to do well in the qualifier and I’d be set. Well, not set, but closer to living my dream of going on tour. It was my name I ached to see on the leaderboard at a prestigious tournament, and one day it would happen.
But first things first. I had a lesson to teach.
As soon as I stepped into the pro shop, I knew it was going to be a long day. One of the members was complaining about the rough being too long and not being able to hit out of it, while another complained that he couldn’t get an early-morning tee time because a female foursome was playing.
This guy was old-school and needed to get a grip. If Gretchen were here, she’d light him up for being a chauvinist, and he’d be sorry. It was players like him who irritated me and gave the sport I loved a bad name.
Brock, who worked in the pro shop, dealt with him. I was surprised when Brock told the asshole he could tee off before the women.
After the man left the pro shop with a smug look on his face, Brock turned to me. My surprise must have shown on my face, because he rushed to explain.
“That was Mr. Ross. He’s on the board and knows all the right people. That man can make or break a career. I don’t care if you’re the number-one golfer in the world, he could make your life hell.” Lowering his voice, he leaned closer and said, “I like my job and want to keep it.”
I nodded. “Good to know.”
Even though I’d been working here for a while, I didn’t know all the board members. I figured that would change when I attended the club’s season kickoff event tonight. Another thing I didn’t want to do, but it was required, so I’d be there.
After I finished up my lessons for the day and played a round to work on my own game, I hurried home to get ready for the event tonight, and tried to forget how my day had started.
CHAPTER 2
~ Beverly ~
Just a few more boxes, and my things would be moved into my parents’ home here on Long Island, but this time into the guest house. At least it’s j
ust temporary.
It was a shame I’d be doing this again at the end of the summer. Moving was bad enough when you were changing homes in the same city, but having to move to a different state put a whole new twist on it.
I dusted off my jeans and stared at the garment bag my mother had sent over, hanging on the back of my closet door. The last thing I wanted to do was get gussied up, but it was inevitable. My plan was to make an appearance at the season kickoff event and then duck out. As long as my mother saw me in attendance, she should be happy.
A smile crept across my face when I realized this was the last country club event I’d need to go to. Maybe moving isn’t such a bad thing.
When the tax increase didn’t go through in our school district in New York City, my job was cut, effective the end of this semester. The principal was also let go, but he found a position right away at a private high school in Virginia. He called me the day he started work to let me know a position was available beginning next semester, and if I didn’t mind moving a bit south, it was mine.
Naturally, I didn’t want to leave since I was involved with a few charities here on Long Island, but there were people in need all over the country, so I agreed. Since my apartment lease was up the end of this month, I didn’t renew, knowing my parents would let me crash in their guest house until I lined up an apartment in Virginia. So I sent my furniture to storage for a couple of months, and brought with me what I needed for the summer. And here I am.
After I stacked the boxes in the corner of my bedroom, I kicked off my jeans and reluctantly got cleaned up and dressed. Sadly, I not only needed to get ready physically, but mentally as well.
• • •
As always, the club’s ballroom was filled with socialites—stuffy, pretentious, spoiled women who’d had a silver spoon dangling from their mouth while still in utero.
When I arrived, fashionably late as my mother had taught me, I scanned the elegant ballroom and sighed at the familiar sight of hobnobbers kissing each other’s asses. Lace, silk, and tulle flowed as freely as the Bollinger being poured by the waitstaff wearing white gloves.
Gripped (Prescott #2) Page 1